Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  The thing was, he was a good copper. He’d risen to DI because he brought in the bodies. Sure, sometimes it was thanks to Big Rab and his other associates steering info his way for their own reasons, like the two Jarvis busts he’d dutifully passed onto the drug squad. But he actually had a talent for detective work. He was not afraid to do the footwork, to hit the cobbles and dig around in the gutters.

  So when he embarked on his hunt for the vagrant called Scratchy, he was confident that, sooner or later, he’d find him. In addition to not doing sentiment, Jimmy Knight didn’t do self-doubt. That was for losers, the going nowheres, like Frank Donovan.

  He’d grabbed a couple of hours sleep earlier and it set him up for pounding the streets that night. It was cold, but that didn’t bother him, for he had a thick coat and a hip flask with some single malt, the rest of the bottle waiting in the car. He liked it cold, the weather anyway. Cold and dry. Unlike his women, who he liked hot and wet. The thought raised an image of the blonde waitress he planned on visiting later. He’d told his wife he’d be out all night working and it was partly true. He’d be out all night, but he wouldn’t be working all that time. Not police work, anyway. The blonde lived up Balornock way and after a few hours’ spadework, he’d head up there and unwind. Some whisky, some blow and so to bed. The lassie was very inventive and fond of a wee bit of kinkiness. His kinda gal.

  He hit the Great Eastern Hotel first. He always smiled when he thought of the suffix ‘hotel’ for this massive, imposing building on Duke Street. He used to pass it when he was a boy, as his parents drove into the city centre, and he’d see the grey men hanging around outside. They all looked the same, the men. Ragged and lost. The building was grey, too, but even the young Knight could tell it had been impressive once. He’d asked his dad why those men were always lurking there and was told it was their home. Little Jimmy thought about that and said, ‘They live in a hotel all the time?’

  ‘It’s not a hotel, son,’ his dad said. ‘It’s a doss house. Those men are homeless. Tramps. They don’t live there all the time, they move around.’

  Then his father told him the building used to be a cotton spinning mill, but it became the hostel before World War One. He said the Molendinar Burn, which was part of the Dear Green Place that St Mungo found when he settled way back when, ran down beside it. Knight’s dad loved his bit of history. Knight himself couldn’t give a toss.

  As a cop, Knight had been in the hotel many times. He hated to return. It always reeked of disinfectant, but then, that was necessary, for personal hygiene was not top of the residents’ agenda. He’d been in one of the rooms upstairs, only once, but that was enough. A dosser had died suddenly and he’d been part of the police team called in. There was nothing suspicious about the death, the guy’s body had just given up the ghost, but they still needed to attend. Knight had stood in the centre of the room, unwilling to let any part of him touch anything in it. He swore blind he could see lice crawling up the walls and the unmade bed was stained with who knew what. The first thing he’d done when he got home was throw off all his clothes and shower.

  Now, as he stood outside the arched doorway of the bleak six-story structure, he could feel his skin crawl. He didn’t plan to get any further than the entrance. He’d talk to the bloke in charge, ask about Scratchy and move onto the other moadels – as the hostels were known – in Minerva Street, the Gallowgate, Abercomby Street, London Road. He planned to hit them all over the next couple of days and nights. He’d find Scratchy. He knew it.

  But not that first night. He met blank stares or shaking heads. Sometimes just a defiant silence. But was he discouraged? Was he hell. He’d find the guy. Only a matter of time.

  He was bright and chirpy as he drove out to Balornock, some whisky in his system, a cigarillo in his mouth and thoughts of kinky fuckery in his head.

  WEDNESDAY

  ‘How did you get the scar on your face?’

  Davie felt the wound burn when Lassiter asked the question. ‘Occupational hazard.’

  He would never tell him how he got the scar. He had another one on his chest, not as deep as the one on his face, but there all the same. There was a third on his thigh, all left there by his own father. Even so, his mind flashed to the carpet knife and the sting as his flesh was ripped.

  He pushed the memories and the voices out of his mind and tapped the script on his lap. ‘The guy that wrote this has never been to Glasgow, has he?’

  Lassiter sat back in the luxurious armchair in his hotel suite and shook his head. ‘Coupla times, maybe. It was originally written for Seattle, but I wanted to give it a fresh background, one that’s never been used in the movies. Does it show?’

  Davie nodded. ‘To me. To anyone from Glasgow. Maybe not outside it.’

  He’d already pointed out some errors in the script, including mention of the Crown Prosecution Service, which did not operate in Scotland, and coroner’s inquests, which did not apply either. ‘You’ve got too many guns. They’re still not that common here.’

  That was changing, though. There had been too many guns around before, as far as Davie was concerned, and now it was even worse. Rab was ensuring his guys were tooled up after Kid Snot’s death. He imagined the same was happening over in Possil, where Maw Jarvis lived. Guns, too many guns – and some in the hands of boys who should never be near a cap pistol, let alone a real firearm.

  ‘And your fight scenes – too long, too drawn out. The idea is to put the other guy down, as fast as you can. And keep the punching to a minimum. You ever punched someone?’ Lassiter shook his head. ‘It hurts, even if you land it right. Use your feet, use whatever comes to hand, bounce heads against walls.’ Lassiter nodded and Davie knew he was recalling the fight from the other night. ‘And when you know someone’s got a weakness, use it. If you’ve damaged a knee, keep going for it, damage it some more. It’s not fair, it’s not nice, but you fight to win. There’s no Marquis of Queensberry rules on the street.’

  Lassiter was scribbling Davie’s thoughts on the pages of his own copy of the script. He nodded as he wrote. ‘Yeah, yeah, great.’

  Davie closed the bound copy of the script he had been reading and dropped it on the low coffee table between them. He hadn’t spoken that much in one go in a long time. It felt alien to him.

  Coco was sprawled along the couch, the latest issue of Cosmopolitan propped up on her stomach. When Davie looked at her he found her watching him over the top of the pages, as if she was assessing him. She smiled at him, then focussed on her magazine again.

  Mannie was filling one of the armchairs, making it look like a piece of childlike furniture. He still hadn’t said a word and Davie was impressed.

  ‘Okay,’ said Lassiter, re-reading his notes. ‘This is all great stuff, Davie, really great stuff. I think a lot of this will play, make that script better. What do you think?’

  Davie shrugged. He didn’t know whether the script was good or bad. All he knew was that its contents were as close to his reality as The Lion King was to life among the lions.

  ‘Could we run through some ideas for the fight scene between my character and the heavy? Maybe using some of the moves I saw the other night?’

  Davie gave him a stone-faced look then flicked his gaze to Coco once more. Lassiter’s expression was open, he didn’t realise he’d mentioned something he shouldn’t. He followed Davie’s eyes and then understood. ‘It’s okay, Coco’s cool. She knows what happened. Mannie, too.’

  Davie wondered what part of not telling anyone Lassiter didn’t quite grasp, but it did explain why Mannie accepted Davie’s instruction the day before so easily.

  ‘Yeah,’ Coco said, lowering her magazine and looking right into Davie’s eyes. ‘Thanks for looking after Mickey. Thank God you were there.’

  If Mickey hadn’t been following me, he would never have been in any danger, Davie thought, but he didn’t say it. He sighed, wishing he’d never become mixed up with this actor in the first place. God knows what else he�
��d told his assistant.

  ‘So what do you think, Davie? You and me, go through a few moves? Then I can present them to the fight arranger?’

  Davie nodded. He’d been paid, after all. The money sat in a brown paper bag on the table in front of him. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.

  Frank Donovan sipped his drink as he waited for Davie McCall to arrive. He’d selected this pub near St Enoch Square because it would be quiet, even at lunchtime. When Davie phoned him, saying he needed to talk, he knew it would be something important. Davie McCall didn’t contact him otherwise. Davie wouldn’t like a crowded place, so Frank suggested the pub.

  Davie McCall. He often wondered about their relationship. They weren’t friends, they weren’t enemies. Davie was not a tout. Donovan was a cop, McCall was a crook, but over the years their paths had crossed more than once. Trust is what it boiled down to. Donovan trusted McCall and he believed that trust was reciprocated.

  He took another sip of his whisky and water. He’d intended just having the water, but changed his mind at the last minute. He’d been drinking too much, far too much. He thought it would take the edge off his worries, but it didn’t. He recalled a line he’d seen on a mug once – I tried to drown my troubles, but the little bastards learned to swim. He had a few days left to find the cash to pay off his debt, otherwise Bang Bang Maxwell would do his thing. The problem was, he didn’t have all the money. He’d slammed another 50 on a horse the day before, which had romped home at 8–1. He was still short by 600, at least. He hadn’t slept properly for days, what rest he’d had was fitful, troubled. He had taken to avoiding Marie altogether now, because he couldn’t look her in the eye. He knew he was looking rough, Knight hadn’t been wrong. Bolton had been looking at him strangely, too, which only added to his worries. He was a good boss, but if he ever found out he’d got himself into hock with a moneylender, he’d have him bounced out the job quicker than he could say Police Federation. He had to find the rest of the cash, somehow, somewhere.

  Davie McCall pushed through the pub’s doors, followed by an older man with thick white hair and prison pallor. Donovan could spot an old lag a mile off. There was something about the way they moved through their space like it was a gift. McCall spotted Donovan at the corner table and nodded. As he neared the table, Donovan saw his eyes flick from the half-finished whisky to the clock on the wall and thought, that’s right, the sun’s not over the yardarm yet. McCall didn’t say a word, though. He jerked a thumb in the older man’s direction. ‘This is Sammy. He’s an old friend. Sammy, Frank Donovan.’

  Donovan held out his hand, Sammy took it, then sat down in the wooden chair across the small round table from Donovan. Davie walked to the bar, leaving them alone. Donovan felt he had to say something. ‘So, how do you know Davie?’

  ‘The Bar-L,’ said Sammy, without hesitation, and Donovan mentally complimented himself. Barlinnie jail. Now, if he could just find a way to make money out of spotting former prisoners, he’d be a happy man. Sammy went on, ‘We shared a peter.’

  Peter, old slang for any kind of lockfast place. It could mean a safe, hence the term Peterman for a safe blower, or a prison cell. You’re a mine of information, Frankie, he told himself, none of it profitable.

  Donovan saw that McCall was still waiting to be served, the barmaid being busy taking a late lunch order from two young guys who looked like students. Donovan drained his glass and asked, ‘What’s this about, Sammy?’

  ‘Martin Bonner is my grandson.’

  Donovan couldn’t help but feel ambushed. His voice was calm but cold when he said, ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘Hear us out…’

  ‘No, I’m investigating your grandson’s case.’

  ‘What I’ve got to say can be part of your investigation.’

  Donovan thought about it. Maybe there was something he could learn from the grandfather. One of the other detectives had spoken to Bonner’s mother and got nothing out of her. Maybe this guy had something to say. Davie came back carrying a pint of Guinness for Sammy and two Cokes, one of which he laid down in front of Donovan. The cop looked at the glass and then at McCall’s blank face. Donovan almost smiled. McCall didn’t look much like anyone’s guardian angel. Davie sat down in a chair against the wall, right in the corner. Donovan had chosen the table specifically with Davie in mind. He knew he’d take that seat, for it gave him a clear view of the rest of the bar. He’d come to know the man quite well.

  ‘Your pal here just told me he’s Bonner’s granddad,’ said Donovan. ‘You should’ve told me that on the phone.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have come.’

  ‘I’d’ve liked the choice.’

  McCall gave a little jerk of his head. Donovan didn’t know if it was dismissive or apologetic, McCall being a hard bastard to read. ‘You’re here now. Listen to us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we may be able to help.’

  Donovan looked from McCall to the old man. ‘Were you in the alley that night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your grandson about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how can you help?’

  Sammy’s face was stony as he said, ‘He didn’t do it, Mister Donovan.’

  ‘We’ve got evidence that said he did.’

  ‘You’ve got evidence that says he was there, maybe. But he didn’t stab that guy.’

  Donovan picked up his glass and took a mouthful. He couldn’t help but agree with the old man. ‘Let’s say that’s true. How can you help?’

  McCall spoke. ‘We can speak to people who won’t speak to you.’

  Donovan shook his head. ‘It’s an open and shut case, Davie. Bonner and his pal did it.’

  ‘You’re not interested in the truth,’ accused Sammy, his voice sharp.

  ‘The truth is whatever the evidence supports.’

  ‘Fuckin shite, that.’ There was a fire burning in Sammy’s eyes now and Donovan could tell this old guy had been something in his day. Donovan felt pity for him, even though he didn’t know him. The vehemence in his tone drew a glance from the barmaid. She watched them to ensure they weren’t going to cause a disturbance. Donovan smiled at her and waved, telling her everything was fine.

  Sammy asked, ‘What led you to my boy from the start?’

  Donovan sighed. ‘Look, I can’t discuss this…’

  Davie cut him off. ‘We heard you found a blade with Marty’s blood on it.’

  Donovan wasn’t surprised Davie knew. Things like that had a way of leaking. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How’d you find it?’

  Donovan sipped his drink and gave Davie a half-smile. ‘A tout of Jimmy Knight’s.’

  ‘Knight? He’s on this?’ Davie was even more alert. He’d had dealings with the Black Knight in the past, none of them pleasurable. ‘If Knight’s bringing evidence, you know it’s dodgy.’

  Donovan sighed. Davie had put into words what he’d felt from the start.

  ‘I take it there were no eye witnesses?’ Davie asked.

  ‘Young girl, but she said she didn’t get a clear view. She was out there with her boyfriend. He was the second victim. We think he tried to stop them as they ran away. The girl’s a mess, too traumatised to talk sense. But we’re going to run her past an ID Parade soon as we can. There’s a junkie, too, but he’s as much use as a chocolate fireguard.’ He paused, wondering now if he had said too much. Then he thought, to hell with it – I’ve gone this far. ‘We’re trying to trace a homeless person who’d been dossing in the alleyway for a while. We don’t know for certain he was there, but we need to trace him to make sure. Problem is, all we’ve got is a nickname.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Davie asked.

  ‘Scratchy. He’s not been seen since the night of the murders. He might’ve seen something, but we’ve hit a dead end. Can’t find him.’

  Davie nodded. ‘That’s where we come in, then.’

  Scratchy was on the move again. He had to kee
p moving. Couldn’t sit still. He’d been going from one place to another, never felt safe, never felt secure. So he kept moving.

  And there was that big cop. He knew he was a cop. It was in his eyes, in the way he held himself. Scratchy had seen him the night before, at a moadel. Asking questions. Asking about him. But Scratchy was clever. He kept on the move. Kept out of reach. Scratchy knew the city, knew his way around, knew the dark, secret places. The cop wouldn’t know them, couldn’t know them, because he’d never been street. Only those who were street knew them.

  Scratchy was under the iron bridge stretching across the Clyde from Central Station. There were other people like him there too, but he was uneasy. He could see the water. He did not like the water. The water made him remember and he did not want to remember. But as he lay on the narrow spar, he could hear it gurgling away beneath him, flowing to the sea, and it was on the sea that it happened.

  Scratchy heard the screaming again.

  Scratchy heard the agony of the dying men.

  Scratchy could smell the flesh burning.

  His flesh.

  He could feel it now, his skin shrivelling, drying, contracting on one side of his face, down his neck and over his shoulder where it was bouldered with scar tissue. Scratchy closed his eyes and heard the crump of the Exocet slamming into the hull, causing the fire, and the smoke that choked and blinded. Scratchy rubbed at his eyes, feeling it again, smelling it again. Scratchy felt the panic and the fear and the pain build up within him again. Scratchy needed to get away from the water, had to get away, back to land. It was dangerous here.